Editor Whedon speaks from the grave, confessing how he used his newspaper as a weapon. He could see every side of an issue, but only to manipulate truth, stir up passion, and hide behind anonymity while destroying reputations for money or revenge. He compares himself to a sneak-thief and a paranoid boy derailing a train, taking pleasure in wrecking lives and civilization. The tone is bitter and self-accusing, not proud. After all that power, he lies buried next to the village sewer, among garbage, empty cans, and hidden abortions. That final image creates a mood of disgust and poetic justice—his resting place is as filthy as the work he did in life.
Editor Whedon — Summary
To be able to see every side of every question; To be on every side, to be everything, to be nothing long; To pervert truth, to ride it for a purpose, To use great feelings and passions of the human family For base designs, for cunning ends, To wear a mask like the Greek actors— Your eight-page paper—behind which you huddle, Bawling through the megaphone of big type: “This is I, the giant.” Thereby also living the life of a sneak-thief, Poisoned with the anonymous words Of your clandestine soul. To scratch dirt over scandal for money, And exhume it to the winds for revenge, Or to sell papers, Crushing reputations, or bodies, if need be, To win at any cost, save your own life. To glory in demoniac power, ditching civilization, As a paranoiac boy puts a log on the track And derails the express train. To be an editor, as I was. Then to lie here close by the river over the place Where the sewage flows from the village, And the empty cans and garbage are dumped, And abortions are hidden.